We are actively committed to struggling against racial, sexual, heterosexual, and class oppression.

—Combahee River Collective (1977)

Gender Violence in Queer Theory

Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, one of the co-founders of queer studies, claimed that institutional homophobia in US culture systematically ruins “queer energies and lives” (Sedgwick, 1993, p. 537). She describes the “routine denial to sexually active adolescents, straight and gay, of the things they need—intelligible information, support, respect, condoms—to protect themselves from HIV transmission” (p. 538). To Sedgwick, gender violence against LGBTQ+ people in the US is shaped by state policies that deny LGBTQ+ people access to welfare.

Such denial also includes access to healthcare. Sedgwick describes the lack of access to HIV protection as a US policy meant to punish young gay people with death; 54 percent of young gay Black men and 34 percent of gay men under 20 were infected with HIV in the 1990s (p. 538). Sedgwick continues to address gender violence against LGBTQ+ communities in the US as social, economic, and state policies of denying LGBTQIA+ people’s right to access social welfare; namely, the role of parents, teachers, clergy, and health professionals in damaging teens’ livelihoods and social services. The young gays and lesbians who were forced to leave home because of conflicts with their parents over their non-normative gender and sexual identity comprised a quarter of all homeless youth in the United States (p. 538).

Another form of violence against queer and trans adolescents is the structural and institutional denial of educational truths to LGBTQ+ communities. She gives the example of a never-released 1989 report by the US Department of Health and Human Services and the 1991 defunding of all research on sexuality and sexual behavior, both under congressional pressure. Sedgwick concludes with a grim reality; “this society wants its children to know nothing; wants its queer children to conform or (and this is not a figure of speech) die; and wants to know that it is getting what it wants” (p. 538).

Sedgwick states that even for queer and trans survivors, these forms of violence are a form of “surviving into a threat, stigma, the spiraling violence of gay-and lesbian bashing, and (in the AIDS emergency) the omnipresence of somatic [bodily] fear and wrenching loss” (p. 538). According to Sedgwick, gender violence against LGBTQ+ communities in the US is, first and foremost, a state-led form of institutional violence that targets their access to information, health care, housing, protection, and supportive networks.

Interlocking systems of race, class, and sexuality shape these forms of gender violence against LGBTQIA+ people. Cathy Cohen elaborates on the need to rethink the term “queer” beyond the white, middle-class, and cisgendered gay male category, that could benefit from accessing state social services and human rights legislation (2020).

Centering Race and Class in Framing Gender Violence

Black queer feminists and critical race theory scholars have shown how constructions of whiteness and anti-Blackness have always shaped concepts of gender and sexuality. Cohen urges us to rethink concepts of marginalization and precarity (vulnerability) when thinking about LGBTQ+ communities and sexuality politics. She suggests shifting “traditional single-identity-based politics,” where the label “queer” explains the struggles self-identified gay, lesbian, and transgender persons face in their everyday lives (p. 440).

Cohen insists that this view of queer identity and politics does not address the “intersecting systems of power” that affect marginalized communities, exploit their labor, and limit their visibility (p. 440). To illustrate this point, Cohen (2020) cites the Combahee River Collective Statement  highlighting the interlocking systems of oppression Black queer women face in their everyday lives in the US:

The most general statement of our politics at the present time would be that we are actively committed to struggling against racial, sexual, heterosexual, and class oppression and see as our particular task the development of integrated analysis and practice based upon the fact that the major systems of oppression are interlocking. The synthesis of these oppressions creates the conditions of our lives. As Black women we see Black feminism as the logical political movement to combat the manifold and simultaneous oppressions that all women of color face. (1977)

Cohen stresses that single-issue framework and identity politics “narrowly constructed politics of white gays and lesbians,” which affected who is “truly gay” and “what type of issues would be represented” (p. 448) in queer politics, as well as in scholarship in gender violence. Here, she challenges:

How do queer activists understand and relate politically to those whose same-sex sexual identities position them within the category of queer but who hold other identities based on class, race and/or gender categories which provide them with membership in and the resources of dominant institutions and groups? (p. 442)

Constructions of gender violence, then, cannot overlook the intersecting relationships between racism, poverty, and non-normative constructions of non-White sexualities. After all, a white cis-gender, middle-class, gay man holds a different positionality of “queer” and access to the state’s services than Black lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgender people.

Postcolonial Feminist Approaches to Gender Violence

Postcolonial feminists extend Sedgwick and Cohen’s works by questioning colonial methodologies and imperial locations of knowledge production. For example, Chandra Mohanty (1988) presents what can be called a postcolonial feminist critique of certain analytical methods in some Western feminist scholarly texts about Third World women. Her main argument is that these analytical approaches result in the homogenization and misrepresentation of diverse and multiple Third World women’s identities and experiences. Acknowledging the good intentions of the authors she critiqued in her essay, she maintains that their methods co-opt Third World women’s political struggles and demands. She also points out the methodologies reflecting Western authors’ privileges of “ethnocentric universality,” which led to an oversimplified analysis of what she calls “third world difference” (1988, p. 63). This highlights the interconnected relationship between the West as a global economic and political power and its central role in knowledge production in Third World or South countries. According to Mohanty, Western scholarship implicitly assigns itself as a “referent” (norm) in theory and practice when writing about the “cultural Other” (1988, p. 64).

The analytical methods she criticizes create homogenous images of Third World women, who are also depicted as collectively and necessarily subject to “shared oppression” (1988, p. 65). Third World women are portrayed in Western feminist scholarship as powerless “objects” and Third World men as responsible for this oppression (1988, p. 68). Third World women, then, are not only seen as a homogenous group based on biology alone—regardless of their class, religion, ethnicity, sexuality, and peripheral positions—but also based on (Western) “sociological and anthropological universals” (1988, p. 65).

Mohanty presents five contexts in which Western feminist analytical methods depict Third World women as victims of oppression. Women are presented as subject to male violence (1988, p. 66), dependent on male kinship support (1988, p. 67); or as victims of the colonial process, foreign economic development, and Islamic code (1988, pp. 70-72). She further argues that constructing Third World women as singular and passive objects is an act of “discursive colonization and appropriation” of their histories and daily struggles (1988, 64).

Those Western feminist analytical methods are not only an overgeneralization of non-Western cultures; but more importantly, they politically harm Third World women’s struggles. Therefore, Mohanty is wary of the political implications of such feminist analytical approaches to the internal and external challenges women face in Third World countries. In addition, feminist scholarship “exceeds the immediate feminist or academic audience” (1988, p. 62), so that scholarships produced within an imperial location of power risk discursively regulating, misrepresenting, and misreading cultural Others.

Furthermore, Western feminist scholarship assigns itself as patriarchy’s “defiant referent,” while producing singular Third World women categories as oppressed “objects” (Mohanty, 1988, p. 79). This negates Third World women’s personhood on the one hand, and further reinforces their assumed subjugation on the other. Consequently, Mohanty states there is “an urgent need to examine the political implications of the analytical strategies and principles” (1988, p. 64).

This chapter investigates the political implications of methods Western feminists use in writing about LGBTQIA+ refugees in the Third World using Mohanty’s relevant critique of their homogenous categorizations of LGBTQIA+ refugees. Ignoring historical contexts and artificially grouping all LGBTQIA+ refugees as the same obscures their social and political agency in dealing with national and transnational oppressions.

Beyond “LGBTQ+ Community”: “LGBTQ+ People” Are Not a Homogenous Group

How can Mohanty’s work on postcolonial methodologies be useful when writing about LGBTQIA+ refugees in the Third World? Rethinking assumptions about a universal “LGBTQIA+ community” is a significant tool for studying questions of asylum, race, and gender relations. The following anecdote illustrates this point.

A few years back, I was presenting at a conference on the invisibility of racism in the area of “Syrian refugee crisis” research (Sukarieh & Tannock, 2019), and literature on queer migration and LGBTQ+ refugee studies in Lebanon. My comments highlighted the rise of anti-migrant/anti-refugee sentiments from leading Lebanese press, municipalities, politicians, and host communities. My presentation explored the lack of scholarly attention to LGBTQIA+ refugee workers in recent migration, refugee research, and civil society organizing in Lebanon.

To my surprise, I received a comment from the discussant for that panel that my approach escaped the fact that “all LGBTQ people face discrimination in Lebanon.” I remember this statement struck me as I didn’t expect an expert in refugee studies to miss the distinction between refugees’ and citizens’ points of view. I wondered how it is possible to blur such distinctions, and their harm.

Here, I recall the queer feminist and transfeminist organizers and writers in Lebanon who wrote about the harm of homogenizing “queer” and “LGBTQ community” categories in Lebanon since the early 2000s (Moumneh, 2009, p. 200; Kaedbey, 2014; Naber & Zaatari, 2014; Moussawi, 2015). For example, Kaedbey argues prolifically against compartmentalizing gender violence against women by centering the migrant women’s movement against racism in Lebanon. Drawing on Black American and Indigenous feminist theories, Kaedbey argues that migrant women’s activism is central to understanding the feminist movement in Lebanon.

The A Project and Qurras are both feminist and transgender-led groups based in Lebanon that have been organizing and advocating for Syrian refugee women and Syrian LGBTQIA+ refugees. This grassroots work is less visible in “refugee crisis” research, most of which addresses the vulnerable positions stateless LGBTQIA+ refugee workers face in Lebanon. To go back briefly to the panel; in the Lebanese context, the homogenization of “the LGBTQ community” as a historical and abstract category overlooks the racist and ableist labor policies, state surveillance, and policing affecting LGTBQ+ workers and undocumented migrant and refugee communities.

The experience at the conference underscored the need to move beyond the liberal identity politics of the “LGBTQ+ community” as a homogenous group. Applying Mohanty and Kaedbey’s critiques is useful in rethinking the dual positions LGBTQIA+ refugee workers face as gender and sexual non-conforming persons and as displaced refugees. Questions of border regimes, paperless people, exploitation of cheap migrant labor, and characterization of Syrian and Palestinian refugees in Lebanon as “terrorists” or “rapists” all shape the experiences of LGBTQIA+ refugees in Lebanon. Postcolonial approaches to gender violence against LGBTQIA+ people are critical to better understanding the interlocking systems of oppression, including class, race, displacement, and labor politics, that shape their everyday lives.

Racism as a Site for Gender Violence Against LGBTQIA+ Refugees in Lebanon

This section highlights the scholarly gap in queer migration and refugee studies around refugee workers’ experiences in Lebanon. This literature mostly looked at the Syrian “refugee” perspective while ignoring decades of their migrant labor performed in precarious circumstances—which seems hard to miss, given that it was “Syrian migrant laborers who rebuilt Lebanon after its 1975-1999 civil war,” as leftists and queer feminists commonly say in gatherings. Focusing on Syrian “refugees” perspectives without considering their migrant labor in Lebanon since the 1940s positions “refugees” as a humanitarian abstract population deprived of its history (Chalcraft, 2009). The following sections give examples of these scholarly invisibilities and gaps in recent literature.

Brief History of Syrian Migrant Labor in Lebanon

As a Syrian Palestinian blogger and graduate student doing my first master’s in Lebanon in 2005, it was hard to miss the visibility of Syrian workers in everyday life in Beirut, Tripoli, and Koura, where my university was based. Wherever I go, I meet and hear about Syrian essential laborers working menial jobs as construction workers, factory workers, farmers, bakers, waste workers, and delivery motorcyclists. The number of Syrian laborers has fluctuated depending on political and economic developments affecting both communities; but Syria labor rights scholars suspect that around 600,000 are working in Lebanon without legal documents, putting many at risk of exploitation by employers and the authorities.

Chalcraft argued that Syrian workers have been involved in a “prolonged pattern of circular migration” (2009, p. 17), where they return and often retire in Syria for the “high social costs (rents, utilities, health, education, transportation, and food)” (2009, p. 21), as well as the lack of Lebanese state subsidies of social services and protection of their labor and their families. Nevertheless, Chalcraft argues that these recurrent hostile and violent conditions did not stop Syrian labor migration to Lebanon despite the artificial Syrian-Lebanese border imposed by French colonial rule in the 1920s; he further argues that Syrian migrant workers are “seasonal” because they do not wish to settle and move their families to Lebanon.

Their migration to Lebanon, therefore, is temporary and strategic; they “accept sweated labor, poor social conditions, political weakness, physical insecurity, and cultural stigma—the elements of subalternity—in return for the economic gains used to fulfill aspirations in Syria” (p. 11). Chalcraft states that during the 1970s, there were approximately two Lebanese workers for every Syrian worker in Lebanon. Initially from border regions, these workers increasingly came from eastern Syria. Chalcraft used the term “elective affinities” to refer to how individual choices forge long-term affinities (p. 327). He argues that Syrian male migrant workers have historically worked in Lebanon not to get settled but to build a small business back home or buy property.

Literature on Queer Migration in Lebanon

Literature on the “Syrian refugee crisis” and queer migration in Lebanon has focused on refugee communities’ lack of access to education, public health, security, housing, and valid migration status following the increase in refugees fleeing the war in Syria since 2013 (Odlum, 2019). The primary focus of this literature was the humanitarian, sociopolitical, economic, and legal dimensions of the refugee question, without considering that many of these refugee communities have been and continue to be also migrant workers, farmers, bakers, and other menial laborers (Janmyr & Mourad, 2018; Dionigi, 2017).

Another body of work examines the intersectional sociological research on gender and the Syrian refugees in Lebanon. It explores the precarity of refugee gay men and questions of gay masculinities in contexts where the dominant focus of gender refugee research was on women and children (Maydaa et al., 2017; Daigle & Myrttinen, 2018; Khattab & Myrttinen, 2014). Other scholars have argued that the lack of access to social services became more evident after Lebanon closed its borders with Syria in 2015 in response to the rise of refugee numbers in the country following the outbreak of the 2011 popular protests in Syria (El-Khatib et al., 2013; Blanchet et al., 2016).

Finally, Others looked at how LGBTQIA+ organizations in Lebanon (and Turkey) “coach” LGBTQIA+ refugees on how to apply for asylum at the UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees) according to Northern assumptions about non-normative sexuality and gender expressions (Greatrick, 2019).

This hyper-focus on the “refugee” perspective and “LGBT refugee vulnerabilities” and the invisibility of their “migrant laborer” perspective further solidifies the power structure and exploitation of their everyday lives as migrant and stateless laborers in Lebanon. While much of this literature describes multiple sites of violence faced by refugees every day in Lebanon, such as border closure and medical neglect, unaffordable residency expenses, expired visas, and state and army policing; it is within the framework of the “refugee crisis,” suggesting such forms of violence against Syrians in Lebanon are connected to the humanitarian implications of the Syrian state’s war. Nevertheless, it is important to note that this legacy of anti-refugee racism in Lebanon goes back to the civil war (1975-1990), the Palestinian camps, and the Syrian state’s 25-year occupation of Lebanon, which makes the focus on racism against LGBTQIA+ refugees and workers an urgent site for scholarly examination.

Racism as Gender Violence Against LGBTQIA+ Refugees in Lebanon

Drawing on ethnographic fieldwork between 2018 and 2019 with 10 self-identified Syrian and Palestinian LGBTQIA+ refugees and asylum seekers, I argue that anti-refugee racism is a site for gender violence against LGBTQIA+ refugees in Lebanon. My conversation partners, who identify as lesbians, bisexuals, trans men, trans women, and gay men, explained that they were not able to build affinities within the exploitative labor conditions in Lebanon as LGBTQIA+ migrant workers. They were forced to apply for asylum shortly after arriving in Lebanon as a result of these conditions. They also described these exploitative work conditions as “racist” and part of the anti-refugee sentiments fueled by political leaders and opposing right-wing parties in Lebanon.

Most of my conversation partners express that they navigate Lebanon within curfew hours and where checkpoints are located in each neighborhood. This is especially true in Beirut and the roads towards Beqaa and Tripoli, where they feared being caught at security checkpoints as paperless persons without valid residencies. Some shared that they also feared speaking in public with their Syrian and Palestinian dialects; many developed a Lebanese dialect to ensure less visibility in public and workspaces. Some also expressed they walked for long hours to avoid checkpoints and getting detained as paperless persons. For example, Somar, a self-identified Syrian gay man, told me, “I avoid highways and big streets—a lot of checkpoints. I walk in the alleys. They take more time, but they are beautiful. I make sure I don’t talk in my Syrian dialect in an area I don’t know.”

Another conversant, Sara, a bisexual Palestinian trans woman, shares with me her fear of being exposed as a Palestinian at checkpoints, which, in her view, is similarly risky in Lebanon. She recalls the Lebanese army’s destruction of Nahr el-Bared camp under “terrorism” charges by the Lebanese state. Palestinian and Syrian LGBTQIA+ refugees have both been portrayed as “terrorists” in the local media and right-wing political leaders’ speeches, further putting them at risk in workspaces and their everyday lives. Thus, the once scapegoated Palestinian refugees now became Syrian internally displaced persons. The raids, curfews, stricter laws to renew residencies, checkpoints, and forced return of refugees to Syria—all were part of carceral surveillance directed at anyone who looked “suspicious” in Lebanon, including refugees and Black and South Asian migrant workers. Anti-refugee racism in Lebanon has become a public and socially accepted form of racism.

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Further Learning

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